


Growth is an inching vine

by Elah



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:07:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26320900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elah/pseuds/Elah
Summary: "Once reality is altered for the better, it only seems natural to do what you must to maintain it." Fjord reconsiders his approach to vulnerability.Spoilers for episode 2x108.
Relationships: Fjord & Jester Lavorre, Fjord/Jester Lavorre
Comments: 7
Kudos: 75





	Growth is an inching vine

Fjord is well-versed in hard reality: the ache of his jaw after scouring away his meager heritage with a file; the pinch of salt-encrusted coppers after a delivery to port; the dizzy infection of adrenaline at the start of every fight for their continued existence. His introduction to magic and friendship and purpose has long felt strange, unreal, more than he could have ever imagined during lonely nights in the orphanage. Despite this disbelief, once reality is altered for the better, it only seems natural to do what you must to maintain it.

This is why, when Jester latches on to the bound Traveler and to all their horror, she starts rising away, Fjord instinctively casts one spell, then the next. He rushes headlong into the shadows (always with a gut-deep fear of whether he will be _PUNISHED_ as he steps in and out of strange planes. Now, holding her tight, the shining being above them issuing an ultimatum, Fjord knows he does not want her to be _PUNISHED_.)

In his arms, Jester pleads through half-choked sobs for her best friend, her once-god, her life constant.

It would be easy to hate the squirming Archfey, but Fjord understands that this creature is like wind. The wind buffets and dances and flits to and fro; it has no direction other than the one it’s in at the moment. Sometimes it topples trees, but it is not malevolent. The broken branches, the trunk undone and exposed to the elements are a side-effect, not an intention. You can grumble at the wind, tuck your chin in when it ricochets by, deal with the damage it leaves, but you do not hate the wind.

Fjord begs her not to leave them, makes promises, using words while aware they are at the mercy of what these ethereal beings decide to do on a whim. Those beings and their worries and their plans are gossamer and moonbeams. Reality is his gauntlets creaking as he tightens his grip, is blue hair in his eyes, is her strained breathing amidst desolation.

Jester also flits through life like the wind, but she does it with a glow, a smile. She is a warm home with all its lamps lit, fresh-baked cupcakes on a wooden table, a tinkling bell over the door to announce visitors. When the wind batters, she does not hammer wood over the windows or clear trees away from the foundation in case they fall. She removes the windows entirely, leaves breakable objects on the sills, wraps the trees in baubles. The wind is free to come and go (though, for better or worse, she’d much rather it stay). If the trees come down on the roof, she will shrug and incorporate the jagged edges into her decor. If the breakable objects shatter, she will cry out, but then she will paint the pieces into a mural. She is delightful and caring and shiny and yes, that has attracted many. But for Fjord, who was amused but not entranced by such pep, it took him time to fully realize the strength, the reality of her unrepentant vulnerability.

Meanwhile, his home is tightly fortified, sight-lines carefully cultivated, a storm door installed and the shutters still locked from the last vortex.

A muffled impact shudders through her to him and then they are falling, too fast for her to voice, too fast for him to grasp the thought of another spell. A soft sensation touches his back and then their downward trajectory arrests; a grace given by their friends so that they can choose to be swaying petals and not Stones. 

Afterwards, the chastised Archfey does not comfort her. He leaves. They embrace Jester, six shields against the unkindness of reality, as she releases months of accumulated stress. Fjord is relieved at this outcome, but aches for what such loyalty has wrought upon her. 

They choose a place to rest, Caleb knitting magic into protection and Beau catching Fjord’s gaze, arching an eyebrow to evoke their earlier conversation. The Fey comes and goes, a slack breeze, while the night air settles on Fjord’s empty arms. 

Does he love her? This is a difficult phenomenon to fathom, to face when his faces are only sometimes his own. He has been told that love is romance, Tusk Love, a perfect kiss at a sunset on a mountaintop. Or, it is a mother who embraces every twist of her daughter’s story without judgement. Such love seems like it should hold unfathomable depths, and he has chosen to shy away from such areas. These ideas have never been a part of his reality--not in his childhood, not on the high and low seas. How can he offer something he has never fully understood?

But then again, doesn’t he hold people dear? If he can say he’s loved anyone in his life, it would be Vandren. That was not romantic love,of course, but he admired the man, aspired to be like him, wanted to protect him as much as he had protected Fjord. 

Perhaps that is his form of love, he decides as the fire dies down and the Nein’s breaths putter off into sanctuary sleep. Admiration, constantly astonished admiration, an inspiration to be better for the admired one, to protect (but not to the point of isolation; he thinks that was likely an understandable misstep on Marion’s part). Are those values, those feelings, not love?

He told Beau the truth; he has grown, yes. Growth is a vine inching up a trellis, not an injection of power imbued in a weapon. His life was one long drudge until the world pivoted and each day became an evolution, and only months later is he truly adjusting to this new pace. If Jester has moved on in the time it took him to grow...well...

This is reality; the hard-packed earth beneath their bedrolls; the flutters of Jester’s exhausted snore echoing across the dome; the unexpected scrape of a growing tusk against his lip as he smiles.

In his inner-world home, he opens the front door and considers the path to hers. He’s not quite sure how to forge the way--after all, he is built for the stern, not the vanguard. 

Nevertheless, he takes a step forward, a soft new emotion unfurling as he imagines curling at her back, arms around her once again.

At the very least, even if she has grown past him, he will welcome her light whenever she chooses to call.

He is fairly certain that is love, too.


End file.
